Where The Freaks Go
by PaiserLNC
Summary: Years after the times square showdown, Mindy Macready was given the choice of life or death after failing to cooperate with the people at the mental ward. Life meant exile and was the better option opposed to execution. With Mindy on her own, can she adapt to the new sudden change? What will she face?
1. Prologue

-Prologue-

"Miss. Macready, I brought you here to go over your progress and personal growth since your arrival here"

"Go on."

"It seems you have not achieved the amount of progress we hoped for. Quite honestly you haven't changed at all."

"Oh Really?" Retorted Mindy with a smirk.

"Miss. Macready, I have here a complaint that describes a verbal threat you issued to another patient."

"She told you did she? Why the little-"

"That's beside the point. This is the sixth complaint about you this year. This shows your lack of development. Leading us to assume this program isn't for you."

"Assume?"

"Need I remind you the incident that occurred between you and Louie last year? The man still refuses to get out of his cell. Thanks to that, he backpedaled to the way he was when he got here. We lost every bit of progress with him. "

"The fucker had it coming."

" I see. Unfortunately the state of New York no longer wants to pay for your treatment. You have made insufficient efforts, Miss. Macready. We will be releasing you from this facility friday afternoon. Five days from now."

"Oh, what a shame. I was just starting to get use to this place. Well then, it's going to be hard to break the news to the fellas back at the bin, but I think I'll manage, Mr. Ambrose." Replied Mindy in a sarcastic tone.

Before Mindy fully stood up to walk out of the room she was halted by Mr. Ambrose's hand gesture, indicating her to sit back down.

"Hold it. You didn't think that we would simply take off the handcuffs and allow you to roam New York again?"

"Uh...presumably." Mindy's eyes fixed suddenly onto Mr. Ambrose. Her head slightly tilted, and one eyebrow raised.

"The state of New York considers you as a...how should I put it? A "special" case. Granting them certain permissions. It's uncommon to have a case like yours."

"So what, execution? You're telling me they're collecting me friday to send me to death row?"

"Actually that is an option." replied Mr. Ambrose.

Mindy sat in silence.

"The other option is an entire new life."

"Elaborate."

"Relocation, Mindy. They take you somewhere where you will not be bothered. A new place to call home for you. You are appointed there by the state. "

"Tell me, Mr. Ambrose, where exactly is this place."

"Exactly? That is not to my knowledge."

"I feel like this is some form of banishment or exile."

"Harsh way at looking at it but you're not incorrect. However, seeing that we have such a wonderful system here in America, the decision is yours to make. If you need time to decide simply ask for it. If you choose to relocate yourself, someone from the state will negotiate the procedures with you."

"Exile or death. Any others?"

"I don't believe so."

"Well, in that case..."

Author's Note: Mindy is 20 years old in this. The idea I have in my head spawned from another idea. As I was drafting the initial plot, which was Mindy touring a place that was undecided, I remembered her being sentenced to the mental ward. I put them together and I'm now still constructing the major plot or the big picture. But I managed to build this Prologue. I intend for the rest of the story to be told by the point of view of Mindy. I hope I have obtained interest in my idea, and your feedback is most important and well appreciated.


	2. Happy Hour

The wave of customers subsided before my patience could fully give away.

Having worked tirelessly for three full hours, finally being able to rest myself felt like a luxury even if only for five minutes.

I went to the back room and headed towards the water cooler. I grabbed one of the last styrofoam cups standing inside the cup dispenser and placed it under the faucet.

When I pressed on the faucet's tab the water came out almost instantly and filled the small cup in a few seconds. I put my back against the wall and brought the cup to my mouth.

The refreshment provided by the water relaxed me and I savored the moment.

However, that didn't stop my pug-like, middle-aged, curly-haired boss from interrupting it.

"Maccready, what is this? Did I hire you to do jack shit? Don't you have a bar to tend to? Hence the name bartender?" He smirked at that.

He was short and fat and had the personality of a concrete wall.

He was so obnoxious, it was virtually impossible to work for him.

He was quick to shoot you down and always treated his workers as beneath him.

As if he ran a sweatshop and we were his poor, inferior workers.

He walked with assistance from a coffee colored cane. It was engraved with two golden curvy lines that rotated around the polished wood, intersecting at various points. His explanation for it told how he was mugged in the 70's and fended off against a group of five men. One apparently "got lucky" and shot him twice in the leg. Bullshit I'm sure, but the young girls he manipulated always fell for it. He always wore a hawaiian shirt and golden framed sunglasses with a faded purple tint.

Merely just another technique to get laid.

To the workers however, his playboy illusion, created with his knock off sunglasses and cheap jackets, failed to disguise the real man. The hoax that hid this man served as good as transparent wrapper attempting to seal a surprise gift. We saw the out of commission, outworn man whose prime had faded away years ago with his youth. Leaving him a regretful man swimming in a sea of self-pity.

"Also, where's Andre?" He added. " I haven't seen him at his post lately."

Andre was the club's only security guard. He stood tall and stiff and was built to control and destroy. He was very stern and never took anything gently. A couple weeks ago he literally threw a guy out for trying to seduce one of the female workers. After her refusal, the guy tried to persuade her with his hands and that's when Andre intervened. He monitored the club like an Owl perched on its branch, overlooking the area for prey. Watching silently and patiently until something established its presence. Once trouble established, he quickly responded to it and resolved it.

Despite his hard work, the boss still treated him as his own personal mutt. His rottweiler he could use and command. He once ordered Andre to kick out the boyfriend of a girl he was trying to get. I remember the look on Andre's face. His trademark poker face was gone and replaced with a face of concern, or perhaps confusion. He maybe even held sympathy for the man he was about to kick out, but I wasn't sure.

Sympathy didn't seem to fit this man.

"You sent him home early for accidently knocking over a glass tumbler, remember?" I replied.

"Oh. Yeah, I remember. Let that be a lesson to you. This stuff cost money, and I'm not willing to

cough up much dough to make up for clumsiness. Understood?"

"Sure thing, boss. Just know that without him we're without security."

"Don't give me lip, Maccready. I hired you out of sympathy, remember? I didn't have to but I did. You should treat me with more respect, girl. Now I'll send one of the cooks up there to replace Andre. Now get at it."

He retreated out the door to socialize with the many guest that arrived this night.

Particularly the women.

After I took the last sips of my drink I went into the closet in which we kept extra cups to restock the dispenser.

Afterwards, I headed back to the bar to see that no one else was waiting on me to serve them.

I grabbed the rag and washed down my station preparing myself for the next customer.

I stood at my station for seven minutes until eventually a middle-aged man approached the stool placed in front of me and sat. He donned a mustard colored jacket, a boring brown flat cap and dirty wash jeans.

"H-hey there...s-s-say is...is there a chance...I could...um...get more to drink?"

"What's your poison?" I asked him. I could tell by his slurred speech that he was drunk.

"I guess I'll go basic. How 'bout a…ahh...N-negroni. "

"Alright."

Due to the state he was in now I decided that this would be his last drink of the night.

As I got out the tumbler to prepare the drink, he asked:

"W-when do you...leave work, s-sweetheart?"

"Don't worry about it."

I garnished his drink with an orange peel when I finished pouring the campari and handed it to him.

"Oh wow, thanks sweetie. How...how 'bout we head out one night? Just you and me, ya know?"

"Sounds lovely. However, I'm going to have to decline."

"I c-can treat you like...diamonds. C-come with me. Give me your num...your number."

"No." I replied in a soft but serious tone.

I've seen worse. Usually I get met with a storm of unflattering insults after refusing to hit it off with an intoxicated customer. Andre would sort this out. This time though the man simply gulped down his cocktail and staggered to the dance floor.

The beginning of "Greyhound" by Swedish House Mafia ripped through the speakers to positive reactions as the crowd seemed to get into it.

As I was overseeing the club I noticed that my boss's attention was on the two young women who sat beside him on a red leather sofa. I could see that they were tipsy.

Later after conversing for a couple minutes, the three of them stood up and headed towards the boss's office which apparently double-serves as a motel room.

"Two of many." I murmured to myself.

Three hours went by and my shift was nearly over. The floor was nearly unoccupied as people went. Serving dozens of people over the past six hours had me more than ready to jump on my bike home to my apartment. But before I checked out, I noticed one of the cooks that worked in the club's kitchen make his way aggressively to the front doors. He had short straight black hair and a scrubby beard. His work attire consisted of long loose black pants with his red neckerchief in its pockets. His black apron that covered his plain black shirt were engraved with the words "The Salty Dog." He wore a white skull cap with two horizontal stripes of blue at the bottom. Pools of sweat laid on his armpits and danced all over his redden face. He looked very frustrated. "We're fed up, Mr. Mallory !" He announced. Following him was a line of four other cooks and following them was the boss, Mr. Mallory .

"Where the hell are you five going?" Mr. Mallory called out from their backs.

"Certainly far from here." Replied the first cook.

"What the fuck has gotten into you guys today?" Asked the boss in his disdainful tone.

"What has gotten into us? You mean to tell me you don't know? You don't know how badly we're treated in this place? We're treated like shit by your friends who come here every week. The friends you invite that are picky over food like a child. The friends who constantly complain over the food over silly stuff like one lousy pickle on their burger. Who, mind you, eat here for free for christ sake!" Fired the first cook with building fury expressed in his voice.

His words held truth. Every week, Mr. Mallory entertained a circle of his friends here on the house. If not offering their useless critiques to the cooks, they drunk relentlessly at the bar. I was always forced to serve them until they decided to leave. Otherwise, I would have to face an annoyed Mr. Mallory. They often got so drunk, I would have to order them a cab home.

"Worst of all there's you. You desperate, miserable pig. You walk around this joint and act in this disgraceful way. Treat us all like shit. "

"You hold your tongue, boy!" Mr. Mallory shouted.

" You never speak to authority like that, you understand? You know, I didn't have to hire you. But I did out of-"

Before the boss could finished his sentence, the five cooks finished it for him in unison.

"Sympathy!"

"As if you're our savior." Continued the first cook. They proceeded their way out the door to the shouting of Mr. Mallory .

"If you kids think you're going anywhere with my aprons!"

And with that, through the opened doors, came five similar black aprons to the one the first cook wore. They scattered amongst the ground, in near distance to each other.

"Next time, I'll hire people who know when to not place pickles, you incompetent fucks!"

Mr. Mallory kicked one of the aprons and followed where it landed with his eyes.


End file.
